Not a Chance
by cupcake satan
Summary: How I learned to stop worrying and love magic: the tale of Regulus Black's illicit lovechild. An SI OC story inspired by Faith and the Devil by Lapsed Pacifist.
1. Chapter 1

**note** : I have another 2k words of this written, so at the very least I'll do another chapter. I'd like to apologize in advance if I don't go much further. That's just how I am.

The OC extras (other than the requisite SI) will more or less disappear after this chapter; they're really only here to build some context.

I was heavily inspired by Faith and the Devil by Lapsed Pacifist (go read it!) but wanted to try the _even more intensely muggle_ angle.

* * *

If I'd known that I was going to die young, I wouldn't have put so much money into my 401k account. Eight years after my death and I was still salty. Seriously, 12.5% of my paycheck every year down the drain. I could have been drinking Starbucks lattes every day and eaten at like 10 Michelin starred restaurants. I'd been a fool, and reincarnation was garbage.

I banged my head on the table and left it there. Laina gave me an odd look but went back to her knitting. I normally didn't ruminate much, but Laina had offered me tea and brought back all sorts of feelings. Laina was my babysitter, already accepted by at least two colleges (Cambridge maybe? I still didn't understand how the British university system worked, but I had another ten years or so to go before that became my problem, anyway). A good kid, that Laina. Put up with my weirdness and everything.

"Everything all right, Candy? Hungry?" Bless you, Laina. Bless your caring heart.

I shook my head, picking up a crayon and going back to my coloring. I'd really regretted not being a better artist in the past, so I was getting in all the childhood practice I could. I was going to be a champion doodler this time. My school notes were going to be bomb.

"Let's take a break anyway," said Laina, standing up and stretching. "It's about time for your cello lessons. Up you get, Candy, let's get dressed."

Another one of my previous life's regrets: music. That and I hardly had any of my preferred diversions anymore, given that it was 1987. The gameboy color wasn't going to be released for another year, and pokemon red and blue for who knew how long. All in all, my foresight was useless; I didn't know anything about the economy except maybe to invest in Google and Facebook in 15 or so years. It was 1988. I had nothing but time. Hence, the cello. A mini cello, because I was physically only 8, but still, I would have made my original mother proud. She and I both loved the sound of the cello.

Not that my current (and just as real; this woman changed my diapers, to my intense, burning embarrassment. A real trooper) mother was any less proud. Eva Whitter nee McCauley was a young mother who worked two jobs for the first five years of my life just to keep me happy. I was an accident, so to speak, and she'd traded her carefree life for, well, me. Me and my weird quirks. I'd suffered from benign neglect in my previous life, so with the added maturity of a 20-something year old, I was a low maintenance kid. A pricey low maintenance kid who wanted both cello and dance lessons, though.

Eva married right before I turned 6, bumping me up to the nicest school in the district. Thanks dad. Michael Whitter, aka dad, was a wealthy young businessman who dabbled in real estate. Armed with a bachelor's in economics and an MBA, dad was super WASPy, especially in the religious way. It was kind of embarrassing for me, but he made mum happy and his parents were nice, if a bit reserved. They gave me birthday and Christmas presents, and gran made a mean meat pie.

Okay, if there was one thing I had a hard time dealing with, it was the food. Specifically, British food, and what they did with meat. I'd kill a man for a steak, or a gourmet burger. Not really, but I couldn't wait until I was large and old enough to be trusted in the kitchen. Baking time with mummy could only hold me over for so long; our household was constantly stocked with biscuits and quickbreads.

"Biscuit for the road!" I held my hands out. Laina tsked, smoothing wrinkles out of my winter coat and tying my scarf.

"You'll get your mittens dirty, Candy," she said, tugging said mittens on my poor, helpless hands. Farewell grabbing ability, it was nice knowing you.

I made the most piteous face in my arsenal. This was made possible by my appalling good genetics this time around. Large gray eyes, dark hair, and a decently symmetrical face made me one cute fucking kid. Sometimes strangers smiled at me, which still weirded me out. I was used to being unapproachable due to an intense case of resting bitch face. Preferred it, even. Being cute had its downsides, namely social interaction.

Laina caved instantly, because she was the best and my favorite. She retrieved the biscuit tin from its 'hiding place' on a shelf I couldn't reach and tucked two into a napkin.

"Careful with crumbs, and don't tell your mum, yeah?" Laina flashed me a conspiratorial smile, palming me the biscuits and taking my other hand in hers.

I nodded, bobbing my head madly as I stuffed my face with oatmeal raisin.

By the time mum made it home with two bags laden with Indian takeout, Laina and I were back on the sofa, her with her probably-a-hat knitting, me with my art of dubious quality. My head jerked up at the sound of the front door unlocking, poised like an eager dog.

"Mummy!" I threw my paper and crayons onto the table, scrambling to my feet. Mum set the takeout down as quickly as she could before I bowled into her.

"Staying for dinner?" She asked Laina over my excited hugging.

Laina shook her head, already cleaning up her knitting. "My brother's home for the weekend so I'm eating the good stuff tonight."

Mum nodded in understanding, sorting through the kitchen for plates and utensils. I clung like a limpet, enjoying the fact that I was still small enough to be carried around. I'd inherited mum's bone structure, so if that was any indication, I was going to be tall this time around. On one hand, yay, tall! On the other, boo, big. There was no pleasing me, really.

"Have a nice night, Mrs Whitter, Candy!" Laina gave me a jaunty wave and closed the door. Mum shook me off.

"Sit down, Candy," she said, pouring me a glass of milk. I'd discovered a new love for dairy; maybe there was some truth to the whole 'white people love cheese' thing, because I fucking loved cheese now that I was white. My spice tolerance was as shit as ever, so milk was a blessed relief when the curry got too hot.

Mum worked as a paralegal, so normally she and dad returned home equally late. Fridays tended to include dinner with the boys or whatever, so dad was hardly home those evenings. Hence the Indian takeout; dad was the better cook in our family so this arrangement was in everyone's favor.

We sat at our tiny kitchen table and tucked in. I'd always been a quiet eater when left to my own devices, but mum was chatty. We went through the usual 'how was your day' script before things got interesting.

"Your grandmother will be coming down from Manchester. We might grab some lunch?" Grandmother was mum's mum. She hated me but loved dad, and loved dad for loving me despite me being an apparent hellion. I didn't understand grandmother, but I loved listening to her shit on my birth father. She only knew him because she'd been visiting mum's broom closet London flat the morning after their steamy one night affair. Grandmother was too sharp, so when I was born it didn't take her long to do the math. By then father had vanished into the ether, and left with no one to castrate and then incinerate, grandmother had turned her leftover energy towards me. It probably didn't help that I'd constantly messed with her during my early years. I'd been frustrated with my toddler body and had no outlet for that rage other than increasing acts of mischief. Mum was working two jobs, so the misfortune of watching me had become grandmother's burden. She still hadn't forgiven me for the onion incident, which was understandable, honestly. I also hated kids who did bad things to onions.

Together we were a headache for unfortunate bystanders. If I were a bit older I might have enjoyed trading barbs with a grumpy old lady, but as it was I was still frustrated with being treated like a child. There was some irony there, because despite the maturity that came with an extra 25 years of memories, I still had the brain of an 8 year old and all the cognitive development (or lack thereof) that came with. In general I tried not to think about how weird and messed up my brain probably was; and it would have been even more disturbing if my brain wasn't messed up by this reincarnation business. See, reincarnation had no good scientific explanation, and so my rational mind liked to pretend that it didn't happen. I resolved dissonance by ignoring weird soul shit.

I nodded. Mum continued, "And Sunday morning we have mass. Please behave yourself this time." She gave me a look that said she wasn't hoping for much. On some level I felt bad, but mostly I knew I had to maximize the opportunities I had as an ignorant, innocent child to defile the Christian institution. An adult wouldn't be so easily forgiven for questioning basically everything.

As a borderline atheist, I'd never gone to church in the past. Mum was a lapsed catholic, so it wasn't until dad came into our lives that we listened to Jesus' gospel every week. Dad was a capital c Christian. I was an odd combination of conflict avoidant and a passive aggressive whiner, so dad didn't hear much of my irreverence but mum was saddled with the full package of my complaining. Church was the only aspect of life (other than being 8) that I really hated, though. I was impatient for time to pass so I could do things and the internet could be properly invented, but I had a caring family, decent friends (for an 8 year old), and was beyond clever (thanks to 20 years of extra knowledge).

I had thought, foolishly, that I could deal with this. Repetition was going to be painful, but I just had to frame it properly. Rather than being forced to redo everything, this was an opportunity to fix any mistakes I had theoretically made last time. You could even say that I was looking forward to high school.

I was wrong. So, so wrong. On the morning of my eleventh birthday, I received some of the worst news of my (so far) short life. On January 21st, 1991, Minerva McGonagall showed up on my doorstep. I'd run to answer the door, because friends! Gifts! Birthday expectations! In no way was I prepared to receive a stern woman asking to speak with my parents.

In retrospect, McGonagall really was the best choice for easing Muggle parents (aka normal people) into the Wizarding world. She was arguably both the most professional and the most professional looking of Hogwarts current roster of professors (though if my memory served me correctly, there were some minor professors that were also reasonably normal seeming. The name Aurora Sinistra came to mind.).

 _Well fuck me. That's Minerva fucking McGonagall,_ I thought. And then, _She looks younger than she did in the movies._

McGonagall took my blank stare in stride and proceeded to introduce herself to my parents. I numbly shut the door. _What is happening._

As McGonagall gave my parents the usual Muggleborn spiel, I sat on the floor and buried my face in my hands. How was I supposed to get into university for computer science and capitalize on the dot com bubble if I was stuck in _magic school_ for the next seven years? I was ruined. I also had a brief freakout about being in a book, but the reincarnation shtick had been bad enough on its own and I got over that when I was six. I didn't have the emotional resources to be worrying about this too.

But. I was probably going to be sorted Slytherin (let's be real, now) and I was undoubtedly Muggleborn. Before, I'd been sheltered in the upper middle class, and now I was once again upper middle class, and white to boot. I'd never dealt with prejudice beyond the shit that all women get. I was going to die.

Eventually dad came and picked me up, setting me on the sofa. He wrapped a supportive arm over my shoulders and held his silence. I leaned into his warmth, biting my tongue and trying not to cry. I was a lot more emotional this time around; the smallest things could set me off, and I worked hard to hold the tears in. The scent of dad's cologne was soothing, probably a conditioned response, but it worked. I slowly calmed down as mum talked with McGonagall about… whatever. Probably money and legalities. Mum loved that stuff.

The couch shifted as McGonagall sat next to me a polite distance away. I gripped dad's arm and gave her the side eye. She was unphased.

"Good morning, Candace," she smiled in that stern, matronly way. I could see myself working hard to earn that smile, a sort of tacit sign of approval. "My name is Minerva McGonagall, deputy headmistress at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

But first. "Candy. My name's Candy."

It was a cold, cold day when I'd realized that a stripper name was preferable to Candace. I was going to carry this stripper name until I died, and I was okay with that. Still better than Candace.

"Miss Whitter," said McGonagall, and yeah, I should have seen that one coming. My memory of Harry Potter was hazy but I was fairly certain that professors had addressed students by last name. "Your mother tells me you've never performed accidental magic. Has anything strange ever happened to you, at home or at school? Perhaps you wanted something to happen very badly and it suddenly did?"

Nope, never. Nada, zilch. Magic? What magic. Maybe I was tragically, pathetically weak, so maybe I hadn't been able to noticeably influence the world. God knew I'd gone through some tough times; if I could have done any magic, I would have magicked myself out of church asap.

My thoughts must have shown on my face. Immediately, she continued, "It's perfectly normal that you haven't. Many Muggleborn children do not, or do not notice incidents of accidental magic. I'd rather believe it's a sign of a well rounded childhood."

My parents fairly glowed at the implicit praise.

"I'll be accompanying you and your mother to Diagon Alley in preparation for the fall term." McGonagall was brisk, all business. She turned to mum. "August 12th, noon, yes?"

Mum nodded, scribbling notes in her moleskine. "Yes, yes. What was the currency exchange rate again?"

And they were off again. I probably should have listened, because this was important information. Thankfully no one expected the 11 year old me to know much, but missing out on opportunities to gather information still rankled me. I was definitely going to be kicking myself later for not knowing the contents of this conversation.

For all that dad was bold and arrogant with work (I'd seen him with his male friends. He was so… white. Very WASP.), he was always gentle with me. I think he tried harder to connect with me and earn mum's approval, and thus understood the things I didn't say but violently wanted people to notice.

For example, he easily interpreted my somewhat sullen silence for what it was: reluctance to give up my life plans tempered with enough conflict avoidance that I was braced to suck it up and deal with it.

"You don't have to go if you don't want to," said dad. "We'll work something out."

 _Um, no, Candy really, really does have to go to magic school, do you have any idea how many things she's going to destroy when she goes through magic puberty_ , said mum, but, like, with her eyes. Mum was really scary. She could hear everything, like you thought she was reading in the other room but she definitely heard you complain about how she cooked brussels sprouts. And then cooked brussels sprouts for dinner every day for the next week to 'try out new recipes and improve' but really that was just punishment.

This was why I forgave dad for making me read the Bible. He was always, always on my side.

My face scrunched up, once again overcome with emotion. McGonagall was talking again, playing the role of reassuring authority figure. She probably did this a lot. I spaced out for the rest of the conversation, mind in overdrive trying to readjust how the next seven years would fit into my life plans.

It wasn't until I was lying in bed that night that the truth hit me. Why was I so worried about school? I already knew the basics and had more common sense than people three times my age. I'd have to fudge my university admissions a bit but it wasn't like AP physics had actually helped me succeed at school. I'd been more or less used to cramming a lot of information into my head in 3 month long semesters, and dad had suggested remedial summer school, which was basically the same thing. And I already had a much better relationship with technology than most of the population in this era. The only thing I was missing was Google; I still didn't know how people found information in the 80s. Was it the library? Word of mouth? A mystery.

I finally let myself stop worrying. Things would work out; they always did. I had a lot of power in this scenario; general foresight regarding the future of technology and, if the fuckery of the Harry Potter universe held true, a generous amount of dirt on the would be plotline. I didn't want to fuck things up or fix the story, but I was a Muggle loving Muggleborn. I wasn't looking forward to battling discrimination, and the rise of good ole snakeface was for someone like me.

Giddy excitement bubbled up my stomach, making it hard for me to stop grinning. Magic! Granted, there were a thousand other types of magic I'd rather have, ridiculous genre hopping universe breaking reincarnation implications aside. There were also a lot of reincarnation shenanigans I'd dodged, honestly. I could have been reincarnated into a story with a tragic ending, or a zombie apocalypse.


	2. Chapter 2

My complete lack of ability regarding British culture and accents will become apparent soon if it hasn't already. I'm so sorry. The Great British Bakeoff taught me a lot but not enough.

* * *

August 12th dawned overcast and slightly rainy, which was, while disappointing, absolutely typical of London. I jiggled my leg as I stuffed my face with cereal and fruit. It was a Monday, so dad had already left for work. Mum had taken the day off and was reading the paper, idly sipping her Earl Grey.

Life as a child was as restrictive as it was boring. I wouldn't be surprised if mum was on some level glad to be rid of me; lies of omission were my preferred fare, so I wasn't troublesome so much as unsettling. Humans continued to amaze me with their adaptability, wherein I was deemed mature for my age rather than an outright anomaly.

I think I'd have had more troubles if I weren't so good at keeping my mouth shut. That and the truth was so ridiculous that it was nigh impossible to suspect.

McGonagall rang our doorbell promptly at five to noon. Mum let out a slow breath. I sneezed, my fingers going cold at the tips. I felt sensitized with excitement but fundamentally dreaded going outside. It had taken me years to acclimate myself to life as a non-hermit. Stuck in a child's body, home was heaven. The anxiety of shopping mixed poorly with being thrust into a different culture.

Mum exchanged pleasantries with McGonangal and herded me out the door. I gazed up at her shyly and mumbled a perfunctory "morning ma'am."

Side along apparition turned out to be much less unpleasant than anticipated. Even McGonagall seemed a bit unsettled with the smug pleasure I was emitting. Compared to being plagued with carsickness, this was nothing. I could do this all day. Mum had a few questions about the entrance to Diagon Alley, and I left thoe details up to her. As a minor, I was unlikely to have the power to travel freely any time soon.

Our first stop was the bank. For the record, I was not and had never been an expert at banks. But identity theft was a real problem in the Muggle world; I really, really wanted to ask Nagnok how Gringotts prevented fraud (Harry & co got away with it) but I mostly didn't want to cause trouble. Mum gripped my hand tightly, correctly interpreting my silence as discomfort. I wanted money but not responsibility. On the bright side, I was eleven. Literally no one expected me to be responsible for my own finances.

I think somewhere in there I got a biannual muggleborn stipend from the Ministry. Thanks Fudge.

The shops were both more and less rustic than Diagon Alley at Disneyworld. More in that it was glaringly obvious that these shops were old as balls. Less in that there were fewer grubby tourists and cleaning charms worked very well. There were plenty of grubby children and rude parents, but it was like shopping at the mall compared to being shoved around at an amusement park. At a store, everyone was suffering equally and my pain was nothing compared to the hell the shop assistant was going through. In a line for a rollercoaster, the people in front were enemies.

A stranger might mistake my wide eyed gaze as curiosity but really I was letting my inner asshole run wild. Wizarding fashion was a sin, all saturated colors and weird fluffy appendages. I was so, so grateful to be Muggleborn in that moment. I couldn't imagine having to live with people who dressed like that regularly, much less be forced to partake in having criminally bad taste. Every time a nasty, nasty child came close to touching me, I only had to see the thinly veiled suffering in their accompanying parental units eyes to feel immense gratification. And then I could think unkind thoughts about how said parents were dressed. It was an endless cycle.

McGonagall looked disapprovingly amused every time I made eye contact with her. She was either psychic or used to this shit; I chose to believe the latter.

"Is this all?" Mum sounded dubious but according to the movies, wizards wore robes all day erry day. I don't think mum was comfortable with sending me off with seven sets of the exact same clothes. The supply list only required three sets of robes, but I think mum was uncertain about my ability to do laundry.

But. "Mum, it's boarding school," I said, as though that explained everything. "It's uniforms."

Blinking a few times, McGonagall explained, "Indeed, Hogwarts abides by a dress code. You may purchase dress robes for special occasions, but I recommend some awareness of growth spurts."

We shopped for a few hours further. The bookstore was incredibly disappointing; I was expecting more magic book shenanigans. Mum and I shopped the same way, which is to say, sparsely. We went in, got what we wanted, and left as soon as possible. My complete lack of interest in textbooks aside, I didn't browse much. I was rather gratified to see what looked like a terrible harlequin novel in the front and slipped in with the rest of our things. Mum gave me a look at my choice, _The Werewolf's Contract Bride_.

"It's a bestseller," I said.

Wand finding turned out to be another disappointment. Here I was, all pumped to 'accidentally' destroy Ollivander's shop a bit, and he had me pegged within three tries.

It went a bit like:

"Hornbean and unicorn hair, 13 inches, slightly unyielding. Go on then, give it a swish."

I aimed the wand at a mostly unoccupied corner, so I was incredibly surprised when a small table to my left burst into flames. I stared at the fire with wide-eyed fascination as Ollivander tutted and pried the wand from my limp hands. McGonagall put out the fire because she was a spoilsport.

Mum reached for my hand and squeezed it, probably more for her comfort than mine.

"Try this one: walnut and dragon heartstring, 8 and a half inches, quite supple."

The wand made a farting noise, a few drops of bright orange snot-like goo dripping off the end. We soon realized that the goo was not, in fact, goo, but a very hot, lava-like substance in the process of burning a new hole in Ollivander's floo.

I wanted to touch it. Mum grabbed both my shoulders because she knew I was a bad child.

Ollivander shook his head, banishing the wand to the ether where it belonged. I kind of wanted it. Inability to perform magic aside, I had a slight fascination with lava.

"Is there magic that can produce lava?" I asked McGonagall while Ollivander vanished into the back of his shop to perform satanic summoning rituals to discern the Perfect Wand.

I wasn't expecting a straightforward answer, but McGonagall was frighteningly good at dealing with odd questions and hiding her true sentiments. "There are a few offensive spells rooted in fire, which are years above your current level. At Hogwarts, you will be educated such that you might pursue what magic you wish, within reason."

Oh. She hadn't forgotten my reluctance to attend magic school. Even I'd forgotten that, so I was beset with a fresh wave of tragic longing for a smartphone. #MagicSchoolProblems.

I wasn't prone to drama but not above passive aggressive wars of attrition. Mum rushed in for damage control and was greatly relieved when Ollivander emerged, holding aloft the Wand of my Dreams.

For real, though. "Ebony and unicorn hair, 11 and a half inches, rigid." He nodded to himself.

I waved it and almost before I was finished with the motion, a rush of dark blue swirled out of the end, saturating the air and slowly drifting towards the ground where it dispersed like mist.

Really, really pretty.

"I want this one," I said, clutching the wand to my chest.

Ollivander had already moved on, no longer concerned with my great anxiety regarding my one true wand. He still hadn't stopped nodding to himself. "Like your father. I should have guessed. An excellent wand, should be no trouble. Just like her father."

I decided I didn't very much like Ollivander as mum predictably tensed. I wasn't sure if my biological father actually made her that nervous, or if grandmother had conditioned that response in her. The only one allowed to stress my mum out was me, so I grabbed her hand in solidarity and gave Ollivander the stinkeye.

McGonagall used that cue to step in. "A hip holster as well, Mr Ollivander. Ten galleons and twelve sickles, if I recall correctly?" Mum snapped out of it and got her head in the game, as she always did when money was mentioned. My new wand was safely tucked in its holster, which was basically a belt. I didn't normally name things, but this wand really felt like a Francis to me. Or maybe Monsieur le maire? I wouldn't be able to take class seriously if le maire was administering justice all the time though so Francis it was.

"Shall we take a short break? Miss Whitter must be growing hungry." My stomach growled on cue and I hunched over to shut it up.

My time had come. I'd spotted Florean Fortescue's an hour ago between Flourish and Blotts and mum's odd fascination with cauldrons.

"I want ice cream!"

"Perhaps if you still have room after lunch?" Haha mum, you fool, lunch was for my belly but dessert was for my _soul_.

I'd fully expected to eat at the Leaky Cauldron but McGonagall brought us to what appeared to be the Wizarding equivalent of the Cheesecake Factory. I ordered chou farci, which almost certainly wasn't age appropriate but whatever. Mum went for a curry pastry and McGonagall chose to use this time to stare at us and learn our secrets.

She steepled her fingers as we waited for our food to arrive. "As I'm sure you are aware, our first order of business is the matter of Miss Whitter's father."

Mum nodded. I almost choked on my water. Was this information for women past age thirty only? With the combined power of my two lifetimes, I was older than mum, even. That was a bad thought; I drank more water to wash it away.

"Miss Whitter's father was Regulus Arcturus Black of the House of Black," said McGonagall, pulling a folder out of nowhere and laying it on the table. "He is, unfortunately, now deceased. Because Miss Whitter was born illegitimate, she currently has no claim or inheritance. However, as a descendent of the paternal line, you may be able to file for a title. There are no remaining family members able to contest such a claim."

I was already shaking my head no. Racism, racism, racism. Actually, racism was inaccurate; if anything I was in for a world of prejudice and discrimination. Race had nothing to do with it.

A gleam had entered mum's eyes. "Inheritance? I'm not sure I understand how your financial systems work. Please do explain it to me."

Mum, _no_. Don't do it for the money. My silent pleas went unheard.

"You'll find most of the information you may need within the documents. Please read them with care. The Ministry tends to move quite slowly with such things, so it may be best to allow Miss Whitter to deliver any further questions you may have after the term begins. Her magical citizenship was realized upon her acceptance to Hogwarts but is unlikely to be bureaucratically finalized in the near future." McGonagall sure was sly, dropping those bombs against the ministry. It made sense in a way, because the ministry could more or less drag its feet until students became legal magical adults, or something like that.

Mum was already buried nose deep in parchment. Which, actually, brought up another question.

"Professor McGonagall," I said, distracting her from her own newly appearing paperwork. Were paperwork lunch functions normal in the Wizarding world? "Am I allowed to use pens? On homework?"

I wanted to lug in a 90s computer but I didn't think that would fly with the school management.

"I don't see why not," said McGonagall. I think she got this question a lot. "While many Muggle technologies are inoperable within Hogwarts grounds, there are no rules prohibiting the usage and practicalities of others."

And wasn't that a really vague blanket statement. I tried to understand what she meant; was she saying that guns were okay, or that there simply weren't any specific rules against them? I also tried to think of muggle things that I'd like to bring that were unlikely to break, and drew up a blank. Mostly because half of the things I wanted hadn't been invented yet.

Mum threw down her papers with a faint gasp of scandalized horror. I leaned against her to see what was up and let out a faint gasp of scandalized horror of my own.

"A criminal! Is this legal? I expect you have precautions in place. I won't allow Candy to attend this school of yours if she's to be at risk," Mum slapped her hand down, her face growing red. I guess 'by the way, your brother in law is in prison for murder' wasn't a conversation mum wanted to have. I, on the other hand, was drowning in the terrible latent possibilities implicit in this revelation. I should have known, but seriously, who remembered R.A.B.? I hadn't touched the Harry Potter series in years but that didn't forgive my inability to connect the House of Black to, well, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Didn't this mean, in a twisted way, that I was related to Harry Potter? Non non non. That was a can of worms that I was beyond uninterested in. Maybe it was time for me to move to America, the land of my people.

"Mrs Whitter!" McGonagall's sharp tone cut through whatever further protests mum wished to voice. I'm sure there were a lot and that I'd be hearing them once we got home; mum loved going off the rails in private and I think dad found it hot.

"Please, Mrs Whitter. There's no need for you to associate with the House of Black if you do not wish to. Illegitimate children must file claims to be publicly registered. Without such a claim, the only people aware of this connection will be us and the Ministry."

"Of course we don't wish to associate with criminals! We'll have nothing to do with this House of Black of yours."

And that was that. The mood was bad for a while but a stop at Florean Fortescue's and my disturbing ability to consume ice cream later, things were alright.

Our final stop was the pet store. McGonagall claimed that, while it was permissible for me to use the Hogwarts Owlery for my communication needs, it would be prudent for my parents to be able to contact me, and for me to remain in contact with potential friends come the following summer. This all made plenty of sense to me but I more or less walked right past Eeylops Owl Emporium and beelined into the Magical Menagerie. I wasn't allergic to cats this time around which meant, obviously, that I was going to hug every cat.

Both mum and McGonagall humored me as I searched the shop for the fluffy cat of my dreams. Which was basically a Maine Coon, but I wasn't expecting to find one of those in Britain. Eventually mum grew tired of me opening every cage to hug every cat and turned to the nearest salesman.

"Candy, can you tell this nice young man what you're looking for?" Was it that obvious that I was on a hunt?

I shrugged. "A Maine Coon. Or a Bengal. Or a leopard cat mix?"

The salesman looked a bit baffled. My mum quickly came to my defense. "She's been in a cat phase for a while. She likes leopards."

Mum wasn't wrong. I loved leopards. I was a bit wary; mum normally shut me down immediately once I ventured too far from reality. What was her game here?

"We don't have anything like that in the store," the salesman stroked his chin. "But a friend of mine does collect exotic pets. I can contact her for you? May I have your floo address?"

Our saviour McGonagall swept in, saving us from having to explain the intricacies of being Muggles. We could expect a letter within two weeks, and the cat, while pricey, could be delivered to our doorstep.

Mum caught my sceptical look. She patted my head and I leaned in. "A gift, so you won't be lonely at boarding school."

I'd been trying not to think about that, but thanks for bringing it up.

It wasn't that mum was too down to earth to find magic upsetting, though she was certainly very down to earth. It was more like, she'd save the freakout for later when I wasn't watching. And so she calmly purchased a very nice looking barn owl for her and dad's home use. An outsider would surely have thought them to be very adaptable Muggles. Even I found her practicality admirable.

The rest of the month was uneventful. Mum and dad grew increasingly stressed, I received my suspiciously large 'domesticated' leopard cat, and together we prepared for my imminent departure.

I didn't particularly appreciate the aesthetics of a trunk; vintage wasn't my style. I wanted one of those endlessly deep, time-space defying handbags like Hermione. Dad looked very confused when I tried to explain this to him over supper one evening but he clearly sympathized and told me not to worry about money and to enjoy myself at school. I had no idea where he'd gotten that from, but he wasn't wrong. My latent worry over my family's finances continued to run strong.

The cat and I got along better and worse than I would have liked. I named him Valentine. He was more gray than the standard leopard cat and not at all obedient. He was, however, astoundingly affectionate when in the mood and prone to exacting revenge on the clothing that I hated. Farewell, ugly orange trousers, you will not be missed.

I wasn't sure how mum and dad intended to deal with the owl, but out of sight, out of mind. This was no longer my problem.

Dad accompanied us to King's Cross. He was clearly more fascinated by all the magic stuff than mum, probably because mum had yet to drop the bomb regarding my thoroughly nutty biological father's side of the family. Dad still had it in him to think magic was amazing; mum had grown slowly more wary and cynical as she devoured the documents McGonagall had left her.

I used to be good at goodbyes, always able to focus on the future rather than what I was letting go. This was no longer the case. Mum's face crumpled a bit once the train pulled in, which was my cue to start the waterworks. I latched onto dad's waist and let his coat collect the salt of my tears.

I ended up being one of the last children to board the train. It could have been worse; the sight of the Hogwarts Express brought with it strangely vivid memories of another old train, _The Flying Pussyfoot_. I vaguely hoped that things didn't turn out like that, but given that this was a British train, such events were unlikely.

Interacting with children had never been my strong suit, but I was able to avoid bullying through sheer recklessness. In other words, I was a loose lipped tattletale who feared neither consequences nor other children. I had a tendency for hasty retribution when irked, which was only amplified by my emotional 11 year old brain. For all my conflict avoidance, I still couldn't hold myself back when I thought someone deserved to suffer.

So I was more or less prepared to run into a snooty pureblood and kick the shitty kid in the shins. I searched the compartments in the middle of the train, unable to hope for an empty one. Because even if I did find ideal solitude, I'd eventually be interrupted by other children searching for a place to sit.

My saviour appeared in the form of Neville Longbottom. I didn't recognize him at first, but a compartment containing only a single chubby kid staring at a glass ball looked like a great bet to me. If I didn't talk to him, he'd probably leave me alone.

"Is anyone sitting here?" I asked as I made motions to sit regardless of how the boy responded. He nodded shyly, red tinting the bridge of his nose.

Silence reigned as I searched my pockets for something to eat.

"I-I'm Neville Longbottom. What's your name?" It probably took a lot for Neville to muster up even such a perfunctory greeting, since I was all but exuding 'don't talk to me' vibes. I felt bad for him.

"Candace Whitter, but please do call me Candy," I smiled. "I'm a first year. You?"

Despite whatever purported notion I had of Neville Longbottom, I could see gears turning in his head as he categorized me as probably not a pureblood of any notable line. Wizards were weirdly particular about families; I didn't get it.

"I'm also a first year!" He looked so happy to have discovered a confederate. I was emotionally unequipped to deal with this. Someone graciously took this opportunity to slide our compartment door open.

"Excuse me, is there an open seat here?" And lo and behold, there was Hermione Granger. Her hair looked even wilder than my wildest dreams. She was out of breath, which took me by surprise. I would have imagined her to be one of the earliest to board the express.

She and Neville made their introductions, and with the exception of my own obligatory greeting, delved into a conversation that consisted mostly of Hermione being excited and Neville nodding along. The topic soon turned to pets. I let Valentine's silent displeasure at being caged speak for itself and Neville had a minor crisis trying to locate his toad.

Neville's minor crisis soon morphed into a major event as Hermione laid out plans to storm the rest of the train in search for his missing companion.

"Hmm, yes, that's a great plan. I'm going to guard our compartment while you search." Hermione looked a bit disappointed at my lackluster contribution to the cause, but she could hardly argue against it. What if strange, awful children tried to steal our things?

I slouched, enjoying the solitude, but soon grew bored. I opened my trunk in search of a diversion and was confronted by my textbooks.

I was more eager to do magic than to read textbooks so I'd done only the minimum preparation for school. I was also overconfident in my ability to rapidly absorb and understand information, and so didn't see the need to read my textbooks end to end. A bit of skimming for what I was interested in was sufficient, since I wasn't allowed to do magic in my Muggle home anyway.

Faced with few alternatives, I pulled out my backup: _The Werewolf's Contract Bride_ by Justine Garrett.

The silence didn't last long. Within a few minutes, Hermione stomped back in, Neville in tow.

"Some people are just so rude!" She fumed. I tried to raise an eyebrow; although I'd been blessed with forehead muscles capable of such a feat, I was still a novice. According to Neville's reaction, I looked to be in pain.

"Did you find your toad at least?" Neville nodded, proudly holding his froggy prize for me to see.

"What are you reading?" Asked Hermione, leaning a bit too close for comfort. She sure got over her offense at the rudeness of wizards quickly.

Suddenly ashamed, I whipped the book closed and sat on it. It wasn't too late to throw it out the window, was it? "Oh, uh, garbage, really."

Hermione would not be deterred. "Please tell me, I'm so curious. I've read most of our textbooks already, and none of them looked like that."

"You brought this on yourself," I said, handing her the novel and flinging myself sideways on the seat, covering my eyes with my forearm. Maybe I would disappear if I stayed like this for long enough.

I thought that rapid acquiescence would calm Hermione down but if anything she grew even more excited, and thus I grew even more mortified.

"I've never read anything like this before! Why does Sheila have no choice but to be a contract bride?" That was literally the first sentence. _Sheila knew she had no choice but to become a contract bride, and had no one to blame but herself for her misfortune._

I didn't think I could handle a multi-hour train ride of this. Neither could Neville, by how red he was turning. What sort of saucy books did his parents leave lying around? He was obviously familiar with the genre.

"Wait, no, stop, give me that back," I briefly grappled with Hermione to regain possession of my book. I probably only won because unlike her, I wasn't afraid to tear the damn thing in half. "It's not age appropriate."

"Aren't you also eleven?" Thanks Neville, you little shit.

"I'm older on the inside." Neville looked baffled.

Silence. Uncomfortable, I tried. "So, I'm terrible at using quills. I brought enough pens to survive the apocalypse."

Neville looked down but Hermione joyfully took the bait. "I've been practicing all month, but I'm still not satisfied. I'm sure we'll get used to it."

"Muggles don't use quills," I said as I took a few ball pens out of my trunk. Neville still seemed confused, and Hermione graciously went off on the history of pens or whatever. I ignored her and handed Neville the pens. "Use them wisely. With great power comes great responsibility."

"The pen is mightier than the sword," said Hermione. At first I had my doubts but those were all blown out of the water. Hermione got it. I was so proud. I grabbed her hand. She looked a bit uncomfortable but pleased. I let go like I was shocked and pretended that nothing had happened.

"I still think that we should learn to use quills," she said, now looking a bit nervous. At first I was concerned with her apparent need to fit in (which was arguably a large motivator for her) but then I realized that the Muggleborn stigma was no doubt attached to Muggle tools.

"I guess so," I shrugged. "I've always wanted to do calligraphy."

Neville snorted. I didn't think it was fair for him to doubt me, but he was probably right. I was too lazy by nature for something like calligraphy, or even good handwriting.

I found myself enjoying Hermione's company a lot. Her main flaw was her youth, but she'd outgrow that. She was smart but what I really appreciated was her tenacity, both with discovering information and with her stalwart beliefs. I wanted to be her friend.

I'm not entirely sure she liked me. I'd been reigning my internal monologue in and probably seemed socially stilted. But Hermione must have been feeling alienated, alone in a newfound culture, so we were certainly Muggleborn allies in a way. We really got lucky with Neville, who was inoffensive as they came. I was worried for his future but not invested enough to want to protect him. If I could passively toughen him up, though, that'd be great.

"Let's study together no matter what houses we get sorted into," I said, already knowing how things would go. I was more or less a Slytherin, and Hermione and Neville were fated for Gryffindor. Neville wouldn't say no to help and Hermione would love study buddies. I had this in the bag: _friends_.


End file.
